My lifelong sense of purposelessness, or shall we call it my inability to express or make tangible, or grasp, or dispense, or reveal, or transpose what was once there, beyond my ability to tease it, or wrench it, or expel it, or exploit it, or extort it, or syphon, or just tap it and listen and not just listen but trace or imagine the lineaments or the implications of, or see the fine grain of it, or the course, the oblique isolate unthinkable, or I don't know, sit, maybe, just sit in the gap and let it in, not the future or some abstract symbol or configuration, but some kind of super sensory  glut, or paradoxical spaciousness across the span of, of not the known or the unknown, but the lesser known, the blindly rejected, the crudely sacrificed, the suppressed… the thing we die not for but because of…

It's been years since I wrote, or finished, a story, or play, or novel, or even this, this what, sentence, or complaint, or proclamation, or pillory...   



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Read RB's "Signs."

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